


Pluperfect (Past Perfect)

by kore_rising



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-07
Updated: 2010-11-07
Packaged: 2017-10-14 11:01:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/148570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kore_rising/pseuds/kore_rising
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Fischer job isn't their first encounter. He remembers it. She doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pluperfect (Past Perfect)

**Author's Note:**

> Rating: PG-13/T at the worst for a mention of sharing a bed and some rudeness about Ariadne's hair.  
> Pairing: Ariadne/Arthur  
> Notes/Warnings: For this graphic at [](http://community.livejournal.com/arthur_ariadne/profile)[**arthur_ariadne**](http://community.livejournal.com/arthur_ariadne/) made by the superb [](http://nami86.livejournal.com/profile)[**nami86**](http://nami86.livejournal.com/) and reproduced under the cut. This mini fic is a birthday gift offered in thanks to her for creating so much fantastic and inspiring artwork for this fandom: _The Fischer job isn't their first encounter. He remembers it. She doesn't._
> 
> The characters, setting and story of _Inception_ are the property of Christopher Nolan and no cash is being made from this story.

  


  
2010- Paris, France

When she crosses the workshop towards him for the first time, a petite, dark haired, stubborn eyed beauty trailing in Dom's wake with a small smile sneaking over her face like a whispered promise, he remembers her instantly. Arthur has built his life on being the human equivalent of filing cabinet, faces and places stored in neat memory blocks, but that isn't why he remembers her so vividly. He remembers her because it's plain that she's fulfilled the promise that she had all those years ago, not just as a professional but as a woman, a face that's stayed with him across the intervening years making him wonder (and sometimes wish he could know, he admits to himself) who she became. So when she holds out her hand, a small, fine boned appendage that carries the ghosts of exacto knife scars and hot glue burns, and he takes it, delicate fingers curling around him, it's on the tip of his tongue to ask "Do you remember me?"

But he doesn't. Now isn't the time. They have work to do and limited time to do it. He simply tells her to call him Arthur, to take a seat and hold out her arm, swiping her wrist with disinfectant as he's done (as he will do, for her) a thousand times before, preparing her for the cold sting of the IV, before letting her arm rest gently in her lap as he tightens the cuff. Her eyes watch him the whole time, a slight quirk at their corners, as if she's unused to such careful treatment maybe. Or perhaps she's wondering, _"I know your face. Where do I know it from? I know you. Who were you, then?"_

He waits for her to ask, but she says nothing, makes no sign and asks no questions, simply settles back in the lawn chair as he activates the PASIV and she slips under into the dream.

~*~

2002- Fort Worth, Texas, USA

Arthur despises his dress uniform. The olive drab fabric is cut to fit someone he's never met, since it certainly wasn't him; the sleeves too long, the body too loose in the waist and a shade too tight across the shoulders, the goddamn pants bagging in the knees, so he looks like he's either in costume or forty years old, rather than twenty one. Add to that that in the dry heat of Fort Worth's Officers Club it's neither cool nor comfortable to wear, air conditioning be damned. He can feel his legs prickling in discomfort against the fabric of his pants and his cuffs chafing the tops of his hands like pan scourers. He tries, surreptitiously, to pull his shirt sleeves down to protect his skin. It fails.

He has no real idea why he's here, at this reception for some dull brass. It could be because he's a good soldier (he is, he knows that), it could be because of his service record (as his CO's never fail to tell him, exemplary. Four tours in six years, awarded the Purple Heart for injury in the line of duty, service in the Middle East, Japan, Europe and South America, highest marks on his assessments, not even a shoe lace out of place) but he has a sinking feeling it's got more to do with finding volunteers for some new project. He was introduced to the neat, red headed Dr.Hobbes who pinned him down with his bright eyes and said: "What do you think about dreaming, Major?" Then laughed uproariously at his vaguely confused expression, the ass. Whatever. He's not interested in diverting the next few years of his career into some nebulous psychological training program and certainly not in being a lab rat for Hobbes and his friends, with their whispered conversations and private jokes. They're going to have to make this a hell of a lot more inviting than plying him with a few crackers and some warm wine then expecting him to roll over and play nice.

He's circling the room with his glass in his hand, wondering how soon he can slip away without looking rude or being missed, when he sees her for the first time. He thinks at first that he notices her because she's so out of place at this party, a dark spot of teenage rebellion in the staid surroundings of the smart room.

She's in a corner, ignoring everyone as hard as she can, a magazine partly hiding her face and one hand holding her cheek as she chews something, probably bubblegum. Arthur suspects she might like to be blowing huge pink balloons of it, but her rebellious spirit isn't quite up to it yet. She's been dressed (he doubts she chose what she's wearing herself) in a pale lemon yellow dress with a sailor collar, long sleeved and to the knee, so her twig thin legs stick out awkwardly from under it, her Mary Janes stuck out defiantly in front of her. Her hair appears to have been styled by someone obsessed with _Charlie's Angels_ , a mess of flicks and fringe which are collapsing in the heat. She's slicked on red lipstick which shrieks against her complexion, doubtless trying to make herself look older but somehow only serving to make her look painfully, softly young.

He finds himself wondering who the hell would bring her to something like this then simply dump her on the sidelines, when she looks up, catches his eye and gives him a real get back stare. It's so odd on her pretty face that he wants to laugh, except he can remember his own features wearing something similar when he was fourteen, pissed off with the world and always gunning for a fight. It's that thought that arouses his sympathy more than anything, so when he starts to make a beeline for her he isn't surprised to see her glower soften slightly in amusement. She's lonely, it occurs to him, lonely and stuck in a place she really doesn't want to be. Much like himself at this moment.

She doesn't look up when he sits down next to her, simply flicks over the page of her magazine and carries on reading.  
"Hello." She chews noisily for a few seconds, shooting him a sideways glance before she replies.  
"Hi." She turns the page again, trying to look engrossed, as if the answers to life, the universe and everything have been hidden in amongst _Does He Really Like You?_ quizzes and spot cures. Arthur sips his drink, letting the pause get her comfortable with his presence ( _God, this wine is vile_ ) before he turns towards her.

"I'm Arthur. It's nice to meet you." She tilts her head to read his name tag.  
"That's not what it says on your chest." She parries, eyebrows raising in scruffy curves.  
"No, Arthur is my first name. And you are?"  
"Ariadne." The word is said defiantly, daring him to laugh almost, as if that's the reaction she's gotten a hundred times before.  
"Hello Ariadne." He holds out his hand. "I'm Arthur." She takes it cautiously and shakes it, her smile tilting the corners of her mouth.  
"Hello Arthur." She singsongs back cheekily.

"So," He hangs on to her hand, warm as toast and small as a doll's "What's a young girl like you doing at a boring event like this?" She stiffens instantly, pulling her hand back and dropping it into her lap. Her tone is contemptuous. "Following her boring military father." She snaps back. "And I'm not young. I'm sixteen." She adds sharply with a tilt of her chin, her cheeks colouring slightly and extremely charmingly.  
"Yeah, that's what I said." He grins back at her furious expression, bristling in a way Eames would later describe as her "...cross hedgehog face."

"And when was that, G.I. Joe?" She jabs with acid sarcasm which he pointedly ignores.  
"When I enlisted. I lied to the recruiting officer. He probably saw right through me, but he still let me sign my name on the dotted line." Her brow furrows.  
"What about your parents? Didn't they try and stop you?"  
"Oh yes. My father raged, my mother cried, my sister point blank told me she was never going to speak to me again for leaving her behind. But it didn't change my mind and two weeks later I was on a bus to basic training." He sips his wine again and makes a face. "I finished high school early and the army put me through college and university. I've travelled, seen a lot of the world..."  
"Killed people?" She interjects harshly.  
"Yes, that too. I'm a soldier, it's part of my life. I don't enjoy it, but it can't be avoided."  
"How old were you then? When you enlisted, I mean." She wraps her hands around her knees and looks at him, naked curiosity now plain in her eyes. He looks back, a small smile on his face. "Fifteen and four months. But I knew it was what I wanted to do so I didn't want to waste any time."

For a second her expression drops into something sadder, less defiant, and achingly, horribly young once again. Arthur's breath catches; did he ever look like that? Was he ever that age? "You're lucky," Her mouth twists, "to find what you were meant for so soon. I mean I...I have no idea. I'm sure I should know, people keep saying I'll find my calling and that will be it, my brothers know what they want to do and they have done forever, but I..."

"How old are you?" He interrupts her softly. She fidgets awkwardly and bites her lip, then peers up from under her awful fringe with shy, huge eyes. "Fifteen and three months." Deliberately copying his formula.  
"And what are you good at?"  
"Art." She sneers slightly. "And science. Design. I like to make things, useful things not artsy crap and..."

A loud male voice with parade ground cadences interrupts suddenly: "Ariadne!" She jumps, turning away from Arthur and looking up to the figure crossing the room towards her. Arthur turns too, and seeing the dark haired, tall man's rank immediately gets to his feet. "Sir," he salutes crisply.  
"As you were, soldier. This is an informal gathering, no need to stand on ceremony." His eyes sweep down Arthur's ribbons and an impressed smile graces his face. "You have quite the record there, major. We need someone like you on board with this project. I do hope you'll consider it seriously."  
"I will sir. Thank you." Out of the corner of his eye he sees Ariadne roll her eyes contemptuously, making the tall man smile indulgently in reply.

"I do hope my daughter wasn't bending your ear. She's at that age where everyone and everything is wrong." He pulls Ariadne to her feet and catches her into an affectionate, one armed hug which she stiffens against, making Arthur twinge in sympathy again. "Aren't we, princess? The only thing that's right is your little models and machines. Tinker, tinker, tinker all day long. What are we going to do with you, huh? We'll never find you a husband if you spend all your time occupied with that, will we?" He drops a fond kiss on her head and she squirms.

"Actually, sir, " Arthur hears his voice shockingly loud in his own ears, "I think your daughter is a lovely and charming young woman. She's been talking very politely with me and if what she's told me is true I think she might have the makings of an excellent..." He gropes quickly around his memory; _art, science, design, what can you do with that? Ah!_ "...architect." He finishes confidently, shooting her a nod and a smile.

She looks back, her mouth slightly open and he sees, ever so briefly, the promise of what she will become under her adolescent softness. The lines of her bones, the smooth shape of her cheeks and chin, the warm darkness of her eyes and the soft bow of her mouth. Heartbreakingly lovely almost, a face people will want to kiss; but she's fifteen, he's twenty one and it isn't the time or the place to think of something like that.

"Well, there's an idea. What do you think of that, princess?" Her eyes meet Arthur's, and he hopes the gratitude he sees is real when she answers.  
"Yeah, that might be worth a shot." She says quietly.

"Anyway, young lady. Your mother wants to see you." He lets her go and gives her a small push. "Thank the major before you go, please." He adds sharply.

She hesitates, and he holds out his hand to her again, inclining his head in a small bow. "Ariadne. It was a pleasure." Her answering smile is cheeky once more as she deliberately ignores his hand, steps right up to him, stands on her tiptoes bracing her hands on his chest and puts a small, careful kiss on the side of his face. As she steps back he sees her hot cheeks, her darting eyes meeting his then shooting away again, making him want to smile until his face aches. "Thank you, Arthur." She says clearly, her voice firm. Her father coughs loudly. "I mean major. It was a pleasure, _major_." She gives him one last sneaky smile, then turns reluctantly to go, throwing him a final look over her shoulder before she and her horrible dress vanish in the crowd.

"So, major, " Ariadne's father, brass to the tips of his fingers once more, gives him a searching look, "has doctor Hobbes explained what his project involves? I think you might find it more interesting than you imagine..."

~*~ 

2011- Paris, France

She's half awake next to him, curled into his side in warm shape of hair and skin, when she mumbles quietly. "I remember, you know."

"What's that?" He presses a kiss onto the crown of her head then her forehead then her nose, breathing in the soft scent of bed heated flesh and shampoo.  
"Fort Worth, 2002, that party. You." Her voice is indistinct, and at first he thinks he's not hearing her properly. "I was fifteen and three months," She adds with a smile he can feel on his neck, "and you told my father I would be a good architect. So I kissed you. You were the first boy I had ever kissed, anywhere."  
"I wasn't a boy," Arthur curls his arms around her so she's tight to him, trying to sound offended over his surprise. "I was a man."

"In your awkward uniform, soap behind your ears, jumping like a jack rabbit when my father showed up." She snorts, making him start to protest. "Alright," she chuckles sleepily, "You were a man. A very manly, manlike man."  
"Eames is such a bad influence on you." He strokes her back gently. "So...did you become an architect because I said you'd be good at it?"  
"No." She huffs, putting a kiss on his shoulder. "But you did make me think about it seriously, so when the time came..."  
"I see."  
"Don't say it like that. I know what you're thinking. If you hadn't spoken to me I might never have become an architect, we might never have met and this would never have happened." Her face burrows into his neck so he can feel her breath on his skin in hot little puffs."Which is not true, by the way."

"OK, I'm not going to argue. But why...why have you never mentioned this before?"  
"I didn't think you remembered." She sighs, "After all, I was fifteen,a pain in the ass in a nasty dress my mother forced me into, bad hair and sulky face, then my father showed up and gave that embarrassing little speech about me. And you were..." she trails off, "...you were _you_. Handsome, together, smart and you made me feel like an awkward little girl. I thought there was no way you'd ever recall me and my piss vinegar ways."  
"I seem to recall I called you lovely and charming." 

"You always have been one smooth bastard, Arthur." She chuckles again and he pulls her up so they're face to face on the pillows.  
"Well, I was right about you. And you've now proved your father wrong twice with my help." He brings her left hand up from under the quilt and puts a careful kiss over her jewellery, the pair of rings catching in the faint light of their room. "Do I get any credit for that?" 

Ariadne closes the space between them, her mouth finding his as she lets her hands rest on his chest, tracing soft circles on his skin with her fingers until he's shivering under her touch. "Always," She replies softly, then corrects herself with a smile, "Always, _major_."

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> AN's: The ages I've given Arthur and Ariadne are based on the assumption that at the time of the film she's twenty three and he's twenty nine (the actual ages of Ellen Page and Joseph Gordon-Levitt.)
> 
>  _Life, The Universe and Everything_ is the title of one of Douglas Adams' _Hitchhiker's Guide to The Galaxy_ books.  
>    
> The G.I. Joe reference is a blatant nod to _G.I. Joe and The Rise of Cobra_ , where JGL played the awfully disfigured Rex Lewis/ Doctor /Cobra Commander in sub Darth Vader drag (and tried out Arthur's voice for the first time, apparently.)
> 
> This is related very tenuously to [_Praxis_](http://kore-rising.livejournal.com/10652.html) (Dr.Hobbes is one of the creators of the Somnacin project, Arthur's rank at the time he went into testing it is the same as are their family make ups; plus since their memory sharing ability requires some active recall it's plausible that he might not know she knows until she remembers. Does that make any sense? No...)
> 
> Once again, I extend birthday wishes and gratitude to [](http://nami86.livejournal.com/profile)[**nami86**](http://nami86.livejournal.com/); _C'est pour toi, mon amie, avec bon baisers._


End file.
